Jane
by RFC
Summary: A blast from Nick's past shows up in an unexpected capacity (spoilers for Overload and Stalker)
1. Default Chapter

Title: Jane  
Author: RFC  
Summary: A blast from Nick's past shows up in an unexpected capacity  
Disclaimer: Uh not mine. In fact CSI, etc. are the property of lots of people who aren't me.  
Author's Note: This is my first CSI fic so please tell me what you think. Should I continue?  
  
*I'm going through and re-editing all of the parts for this story, so this is a new(ish) part 1. Hopefully I'll have the others up sometime in the next few days.*  
  
  
Part 1  
  
The body had been found at two am, a regular Jane Doe. A couple of kids out after curfew messing around had stumbled upon it in the wasteland outside of Vegas, partially buried in sand. She'd been dead for maybe a couple of hours; rigour mortis had yet to set in but that didn't mean a whole lot. The sub zero temperatures of the desert at night had the same effect on the cadaver as a big sandy freezer. According to the coroner she'd been killed by a single bullet to the left temple, shot at close range. Robbins had dug a standard issue nine-millimetre slug out of the brain tissue. There was no ID of any description so Sara was running the victim's prints through their database. It was a long shot but, given that Missing Persons had come up with nothing, it was all they had. The lack of a purse in her handbag suggested that this had been robbery except that the wound was clean, straight to the brain. It had been done by someone who knew what he or she was doing.   
  
Unsurprisingly, Gil Grissom, head of Las Vegas crime lab, was not having a good night. He was, at least for the time being, stumped and it wasn't a feeling he liked. He was all for the perps making his job challenging -challenging meant interesting - but not to such an extent that they actually got away with the crimes they committed. _That_ was in no way part of the deal.   
  
His office seemed suddenly small as he reviewed the case photos that he and Catherine had collected earlier that evening, or rather morning. She looked harmless, like someone's mother or grandmother, maybe fifty to fifty-five. This was the kind of crime that really screwed his people up. The kind that didn't make sense. They couldn't hide behind the evidence with these. They had to get involved in the victim's life. Of course, that was only if they could actually find out who the victim was, a little voice at the back of his mind added.   
  
What surprised him was that there was nothing to suggest that any kind of a struggle had taken place: no bruises on the victim, nothing under her fingernails, no fingerprints on the body itself so the perp had to have been wearing gloves. Another sign that he or she, mostly likely he, was a pro. There had to have been contact between Jane and her killer when the body was transported which meant that even if there were no bit of him on her that had to bits of her on him, or on whatever he had used as transport. She had definitely been a body at that time - the blood, or rather lack thereof, on the ground told him that, which meant that there was blood somewhere else. All they needed was a viable suspect and a viable somewhere else'. They'd crack this, it was just a question of listening to the evidence, unfortunately the majority of which had been buried or displaced by the same sand that had obscured the body itself. It was going to be a long night.  
  
He gave up after five minutes. His argument being that even five minutes was a long time when you were staring at images of a dead person. It had _seemed_ like a long time at least. There was nothing there, or rather nothing that he hadn't already seen. He had started to put them back in to their wallet as the rest of his team filed into his office.  
  
He looked up at them expectantly from his desk, "Anything?"  
  
"No matches for the prints," Sara Sidle slumped back against his filing cabinet and crossed her arms. The tall brunette looked as frustrated with this case as he was.   
  
Catherine Willows shrugged. She'd got back to the lab thirty minutes ago having found little at the crime scene itself. Whoever had executed the murder had done so with precision. The sand had already filled in any tracks that had been left when the body was dumped.  
  
"I got something," the pure distaste that registered on Warrick Brown's usually amiable face said that, in this case, nothing would be better than this particular 'something'. His colleagues waited for him expand on that. He wasn't the squeamish sort. You didn't become a CSI if you were. "Semen," he finally continued, "on the scarf in the vic's bag."  
  
"Assault?" Asked Sara  
  
"Inconclusive," the tall black man responded. "I gotta do some more tests but it isn't fresh. There was no sign on the body, right?" Grissom nodded affirmative. As undesirable as this development was, if they could trace its source they'd at least have a means of identifying Jane if nothing else  
  
His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. Moments and several confused glances later, it opened and a grinning head popped through followed by an athletic looking body. Nick Stokes' grin widened as he took in the scene in front of him. He shouldn't feel smug about not having to work but it was just too hard to resist. Especially in the mood he was in, after just coming back from a lazy holiday with his sister and her kids. God he loved those kids; they were at that age where they'd got over the worst stage but they still knew how to have fun.   
  
"What's up, guys?"  
  
"Jane Doe," muttered Warrick.  
  
"Damn." They were never easy. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost.  
  
"If you're here to gloat Nicky, you can leave now," muttered Grissom. He smiled slightly at the teasing. The break had apparently been just what his youngest CSI had needed. Nick Stokes hadn't had a good year. It had been hard on him psychologically and physically after being stalked and then eventually attacked by Nigel Crane, on top of the usual stress that simply came with the job. Now though, he seemed almost back to normal. The easy banter, although essentially superficial, spoke volumes.  
  
"Can I help? Seriously, I've got nothing to do." Nick pouted slightly in an attempt to look engaging. It worked every time and he really didn't want to go home until he had to. It still felt strange to him, foreign. He so needed to look for a new place.   
  
While she rolled her eyes at his attempt at 'cute' and making a mental note to ask him to baby-sit her little girl sometime - Lindsay would show him cute' - Catherine handed over the wallet of photos that she'd started to flick through. There was nothing new to her in there anyway.  
  
"So what's up?" he asked, surveying his colleagues as he absentmindedly removed the covering.   
  
"No Identification, not listed as missing, not on the database," supplied Sara, succinctly.   
  
"Nice," responded Nick, before he looked down at the crime scene photos. His hands shook slightly as he took in each of the images. It'd been years, she'd changed but not so much that she was unreconcileable with the image imprinted on his mind of the woman who'd haunted his childhood. "Guys, she's, uh, she's not a 'Jane Doe'." His voice shook like his hands as he supplied them with a name. If he'd looked at the small mirror across the room he'd have seen his face drain of colour. All he could think was: 'Not now, not after everything else'. He looked up to see his friends staring at him with concern, worried that she was a friend or a relation. He smiled wanly, looking round before seeking out Catherine's green unflinching gaze. He shrugged and repeated to her what he'd said just a few months before: "Last minute baby-sitter."   



	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: I just wanted to say thank you to all of the people who've given me feedback - especially those who took the time to email it to me when ff.net was poorly.

Warning: Spoilers for 'Overload' people, there are non-graphic references to child abuse. 

Part 2

The insistent rapping at the front door of his bungalow was eventually what pulled the youngest CSI from his already restless sleep. He groaned as he blearily padded towards the sound, half-dreading that he was still asleep. As much as he'd tried to dismiss the small part of his subconscious that connected the noise to the psychic who'd appeared to warn him of the imminent invasion of his safe, private world, the nightmares that plagued him night after night had planted more than a small seed of doubt in his mind. His words to Sara that night had come back to haunt him – it wasn't over for him. He'd meant that he could go on living, he'd be able to get past it but it wasn't over, it felt like it was never going to be over. 

"Nick?" Called Catherine from the other side of the door reassuring him that this wasn't a dream. Of course it wasn't. It was a waking nightmare, bringing back the events earlier that morning. How he'd steadied his hand and schooled his face into a suitably mournful expression. How he'd clarified, while avoiding Cat's gaze, that their Jane Doe was in fact Jane Peterson, who'd babysat for him twenty-five years ago. How he'd hoped that his face showed fond recollection as he explained that she used to bake him cookies. The slight smiles of his colleagues told him that his face mirrored nothing of his inner turmoil, his inner disgust. He didn't say that the cookies were a reward. He didn't say that the smell of cookies meant that she was going to be coming upstairs and that he'd sit on his bed in the dark and wait to hear her footsteps on the stairs. He didn't say that he couldn't eat cookies now without being physically sick. Instead he'd smiled sadly and told them how nice she was, what a terrible waste, and wondered who would do such a thing to a harmless old lady.

"Nick, open up!" Catherine brushed passed him as he opened the door. He'd expected her to come. She'd been silent during his masterful performance for she had known that that was exactly what it had been. When she was securely inside she turned to face him. "We have to talk." She stated, slipping out of her jacket and depositing it on the coat rack by the door. They really did. 

"Hey Catherine, come on in," he quipped trying to lighten the mood. "Make yourself comfortable," he added more sincerely. "I have to, uh, go get dressed." Willows blushed slightly at this. She hadn't noticed that he was only wearing silk pyjama bottoms, since Nick's announcement in Grissom's office she'd been focussing her own agitation. How did this happen in Vegas? How could it have happened now of all times? As she'd listened to him fool those who cared about him, it had occurred to her that that was probably what he'd been doing his entire life, protecting himself and pretending that all was well as he'd done earlier that night. She didn't doubt that there had been truth underneath the façade – that woman had played a part in his childhood, she'd moulded him into the man that he'd become. He'd told the team she'd been there as he'd been growing up. He'd told her the process had been tainted by systematic and continuous abuse. God, she wanted to throw up.

"You know I was so happy when I turned twelve and my folks decided I could stay by myself…" Nick trailed off, smiling self-deprecatingly, as if chagrined or embarrassed by his childish delight at the prospect of escape. He hadn't understood why it had been wrong, he'd just known as children do that something was happening to him that shouldn't and somehow knowing also that it was something he powerless to prevent. 

The redheaded CSI started. She hadn't realised that he'd returned, now fully clothed and bearing coffee. She must have been completely out of it if he'd been able to make coffee mere feet away without her noticing. He handed her a cup as he took a seat opposite. She stared at him – he looked like their Nick but not. He wasn't the happy-go-lucky kid who'd signed up straight out of college because of all the cool toys they got to play with, this man had ghosts. He wasn't even the happy-go-lucky guy who'd enter their boss's office earlier that evening (or rather morning) so that he could gloat about not having to work. He seemed to have aged a decade in the last few hours. Of course it had been more gradual than that, they just hadn't really noticed. She'd thought that he'd lost his innocence during the whole Jane Galloway thing but looking at the figure across from her on the couch and having heard what he'd disclosed about 'Jane' she had to wonder whether he'd ever had any innocence at all. Whether the whole thing wasn't just an act like the one Nick had put on in Gil's office for the others. Whether the real Nick Stokes wasn't sitting in front of her right now.

"You think I should tell Grissom." Nick's voice once again pulled her away from her thoughts. It wasn't a question but she nodded anyway. 

"I do," she affirmed. "I mean, what if the perp was…" she stopped there, she didn't want to say it, she didn't even want to think it.

"Someone like me?" It was the easiest way to put it. She nodded again. This whole situation was surreal. He'd first told her months ago to rationalise his actions during a case and at the time she'd almost been able to distance herself from what he'd said. This happened to other people it didn't happen to her friends. "You realise," he continued, "that I'd be setting myself up as the prime suspect." The boyish CSI winced almost imperceptibly – his sense of humour, his coping mechanism, kicked in at the most inappropriate times. And that was apart from it being a lousy attempt at a joke. It sounded false even to him. Catherine would realise that of course. As well as everything else, what she didn't know already, she'd probably guess. His persona was being gradually stripped away leaving him bare. 

"And if it's not?" He asked, returning to the earlier thread of their conversation. "What if it's something completely unconnected?" Nick sighed and slumped back against his couch. He met Catherine's eyes for the first time since she'd arrived at his door. Telling her had been hard enough. Could he bear to confess all to Grissom as well and then have it be meaningless? Could he really drop his shield and show his friends who he really was? God, did he even want to? 


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Whadaya know? I updated. Ok, in my defence this isn't the easiest story to write (poor Nick) but still, sorry that took so long. Just wanted to say thanks to all the nice people who reviewed and told me what they thought - keeps me writing, honest!

Part 3

Grissom used the key provided by the vic's landlord to open the door to the apartment. She'd been nice, friendly, the balding middle-aged man had said. He had never felt uncomfortable entering a corpse's property before, the person was after all dead and not really likely to mind. The families always surprised him - they'd object to the disturbance, they'd say that the aforementioned _dead_ person wouldn't want their things moved or rifled through. They'd make up any number of excuses to stop him and his team from doing their job. You'd think that they'd want to find out what had happened. You'd think they'd want closure. There was no family in this case and also, Grissom decided, very good reasons for choosing the company of bugs rather than people. This, however, felt like an intrusion. For the first time in his career, it felt as if they had no right to be where they were. It was Nick's involvement that did this, it just felt wrong - the whole thing did. An impression from the whole case that he wasn't even sure that he understood and certainly couldn't articulate.

Once they'd found out what her name was, it had taken them all of thirty seconds to find out where she lived. They desperately needed some insight into the life of their corpse, at least to give them something to go on. Something more than the twenty-year old stories that Nick could give them. The case had so far been a non-starter even after they'd been supplied with a name. There was evidence but at this moment, to say that it was disjointed would possibly be the understatement of the decade. 

The door swung open after a couple of attempts and Catherine followed him closely in the apartment. She'd pulled rank to get in on this assignment, leaving Sara and Warwick both feeling more than slightly resentful, both of whom considering themselves to be Nick's closest friends on the team. They were, but it was undoubtedly best that the more experienced CSI accompanied him instead. She could supply a level of detachment that their subordinates wouldn't have been able to maintain, not for long anyway. Despite this, he'd have liked to have Nicky there himself, the conflict of interest aside through but the younger man was still technically on vacation and even Gil, who believed that all should be as devoted to the job as he was, felt that he couldn't ask him to give up his leave, no matter how useful he'd be.

The place was nice. Open-plan for the most part, the kitchenette, dining and living areas being together in the main portion of the third-floor flat. It was neat and organised and yet obviously still a home. Somewhere that was lived in rather than just inhabited. Well, not anymore but it had been. Grissom surveyed it before moving to open the curtains. He noted that they were closed - she'd probably left the flat after dark. You didn't spend money on large windows unless you wanted the light that they provided. Catherine headed for the fridge. Nothing had gone off, not even the perishables, so they were looking at a fairly short space of time between now and when she, when Jane, had last been here. 

A cursory inspection of the apartment gave them nothing, no signs of a struggle, nothing out of the ordinary, random fibres to go to the lab but apart from that, absolutely nothing. If Grissom had been frustrated the night before now he was, he didn't even know what he was, which for someone like the controlled chief CSI was so not of the good.

Catherine could see it clearly on his face as she headed off towards the bathroom to finish the sweep she'd started in there. Gil Grissom, on the other hand, simply did not have trouble with cases. He seemed to see things on levels and in ways that none of the others, including herself, could. It was only a matter of time before he figured out exactly what Nick's connection to the woman was. The more she saw or rather the less she saw, the more she was convinced that what had happened to the young man, who was practically her baby brother, was very much relevant to the case and there was no way that their boss wasn't going to work something out. If the red head was entirely honest with herself, that was why she was here. This was why she'd been tense since entering the place. Keeping records of that kind of thing was not unheard of and if there were any it was only a matter of time before they were found. Before they were done they'd have turned the placed upside down and inside out, twice. She and Grissom, and Sarah and Warwick for that matter always tried to watch out for Nick that little bit more, this was just another thing that they couldn't protect him from. Her friend was about to discover something worse than awful and she couldn't do a thing, she couldn't break Nick's confidence, while he'd surely recognise that it as only a matter of time before everything came out, he'd never trust her again and she cherished that trust. If the red-head was entirely honest with herself that was why she was here. This was about damage control.

Damage control that, from the look on her mentor's face, was already pointless. 

The flat had been as organised as it had first appeared so after leaving Cat to finish the preliminary sweep for evidence, it had taken Gil all of thirty seconds to locate Ms. Peterson's personal papers. It wasn't those, however, that caused him to call for his colleague or his face to drain of colour. 

In the sole bedroom of the apartment, at the bottom of the large built-in wardrobe, in the same file as the tax receipts and vehicle registration forms, were pictures, lots of pictures. Of boys. It was one of those card folders that sort of collapsed open when you let them go, the kind that seemed to have tens of compartments, a deceptive number of compartments and a child for each one. Complete with pictures and dates and personal accounts, leaving no doubt as to what this meant. Filed away with the woman's passport and health insurance. But it wasn't even those things that caused his breath to become ragged and his heart to pound against his chest. More the realisation that for each of these boys, Jane Peterson had probably started out as a last minute babysitter.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Right, update, uh, two months isn't that long really - who am I kidding? Am a bad, bad person. Anyway thank-you to all you lovely people who have reviewed this story, specially to all those people who emailed me (yay). 

Indus - what's it going to take for you to write your story? 'Cos it sounds cool and I want to read it.

JJD - happy now? - My smiley faces aren't working *pout*

Part 4

Nick sprawled on a chair in the staff lounge nursing a cup of coffee. It was taking all of his self-control to keep himself in his chair. The urge to bolt or at least stand up and start pacing was almost unbearable. He'd arrived twenty minutes ago and just sitting there waiting wasn't getting any easier. Catherine had called from the car and asked him to meet her and Grissom at work, which of course could only mean one thing. This was it - everything was going to come out. To everyone. Sara and Warrick would be brought back in on the case and everyone would know. And _that_ was just what he didn't want. They'd look at him and they wouldn't see Nick anymore. They wouldn't see a competent, even talented, CSI, they wouldn't see the ladies-man, the charmer, the ex-frat boy, the high school's star quarterback. They'd see a victim. _Bham_, no more identity, just like that.

"Hey man, what's up?" Warrick Brown sat across from his friend. He hadn't seen him since Nick had checked in a couple of days before only to end up identifying their Jane Doe. The question was casual but the invitation was there if the younger man did actually want to talk about whatever was bothering him. No pressure though. He'd seemed on edge then and apparently wasn't much better now if the way his fingers were digging into the arms of his chair was anything to go by. 

Nothing, just my life as I know it about to end but yunno same old, same old. Nick relaxed his grip as he followed the green-eyed gaze directed at his hands. He willed himself to relax as he took a sip of his thus far untouched black coffee. Cold black coffee. He spluttered, pulling a face and spitting the drink back into its mug. Coffee wasn't his favourite beverage at the best of times. He ignored the previous question and settled on shooting a dirty look in the direction of his companion, who was struggling valiantly, trying to contain a laugh before finally giving up.

The usually good-natured CSI stood to pour the foul tasting liquid away only to find himself face to face with his boss.

"My office now." Grissom ordered, before striding away, leaving Catherine, who had been leaning against the doorframe, and Nick, coffee cup still in hand, to trail behind him. The remaining member of the team watched their progress round the corner before draining his own mug and getting up himself to find out if Sara had had any luck with the prints she was checking. If it was anything important he'd get told eventually, he figured, shrugging philosophically.

The door of Gil Grissom's office was firmly closed before he addressed his colleagues softly. 

"You lied to me?" 

"Yes," muttered Nick, staring intently at his shoes. It wasn't really a question. Gris obviously knew at least the basics. Technically neither Nick nor Catherine had uttered an untruth but there _was_ lying by omission.

"And you deliberately withheld information that could be pertinent to a murder investigation?" 

"Yes." Cat leant against his large grey filing cabinet silently offering her support but letting Nick answer for both of them. This was his history, his nightmare. He shuffled slightly, shifting from foot to foot, loath to look up and meet the eyes of his mentor. 

Gil sat down at his desk and surveyed his subordinates, neither of them willing to meet his eyes. While Catherine lingered unobtrusively in the background, Nick stood in front of his desk, eyes slightly downcast, hands clasped behind his back. The stance of someone who knew they were in trouble. The older man sighed and ran his hand over his brow.

"Sit down, Nicky," he requested gently, trying to start again. The younger man looked at him and then glanced back at Catherine before taking the only other seat in the room. They had hardly spoken on the way back to the labs but from what he could gather the red head had become something of a confidante to the youngest member of their team. He watched, his fury barely contained, as Nick shifted under his gaze. This wasn't the happy-go-lucky, confident, self-confessed ladies man, who'd managed to endear himself to every member of their team within days of joining the CSI unit and now firmly occupied a place in each of their hearts. The other stuff could wait of course, what was important now was Nick. Gil knew enough so that he didn't need to press the obviously fragile, almost delicate, young man before him for details. Not yet at any rate.

Nick suddenly took a deep breath and sat back in the chair, making eye contact for the first time. Despite the slightly defeated slump that his shoulders had worn from the moment he'd arrived at work, there was something in his eyes, a kind of steel, as he reached over to retrieve the folder of photos and the like that they'd brought back from that woman's, from _Jane's_ apartment. Grissom grimaced, no matter how strong he was though, and he was strong, he wasn't ready for this.

Nick _had_ been naïve to think that maybe what she'd done to him twenty-five years ago wasn't relevant today, he knew that. How could it not be? Not that he'd believed what he was telling himself, not really at any rate. He had no excuse, he thought, scanning these new images just as he had two days previously before this whole thing had been dredged back up to the forefront of his mind. The pictures were apparently arranged in chronological order starting with, God, him, each one complete with a name and a date and a place. He was the first though, the first of many cute brown-haired, brown-eyed little boys. At least until the last image.

"Jesus," he murmured, visibly paling and fighting the urge to retch. He turned the last photo over, the most recent one. It read: Nick Stokes, my boy. Las Vegas, Nevada, 2002. 

Authors note: Don't ya just hate me now? Oh, hey, was thinking of making this a Sara/Nick story - what do people think?


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: I updated. So far so good, now you just have to look out for rain of toads etc. Would like to thank everyone who's still with me *g*. I started this story without any idea as to how it was going to go so I'm sort of figuring it out as I go along (Note to self: Next time plan story…). 

Franny - was gonna write back but figured that you'd rather read actual story rather than apologetic email *g*

Part 5

Nick's hands shook as he stared at the writing before him. The other photos fell from his grasp barely rustling as they made contact with the floor. Neither Catherine or Grissom made any attempt to retrieve them. Las Vegas, Nevada. _Jesus_. He couldn't be here any more. This place, this sanctuary - it had been invaded, _violated_. It hadn't even occurred to him that he'd been hiding until this whole thing had dredged it all back up. But he had. Not going home to Texas, not staying close to his high school friends, everything he'd done since college had been to make as small an impact as possible. He was just Nick Stokes here, whatever the hell that meant, no riders, no hidden clauses, no other crap, just Nick.

The CSI in Nick returned the picture to its protective case. His body and his brain didn't even seem to be connected because his mind was screaming at him to destroy it. To remove it from existence. As if that would make everything go away. But it was evidence. And you took care of evidence. Always. Nobody tried to stop him as he left the building. Cat had even shifted slightly to get out of his way. He ignored Sara's look of concern and Greg's hollered greeting. Not that it mattered, he thought. This was it. All the people in his life, all the people who were important to him would find out, would know. Nicholas James Stokes was a broken person - he wasn't someone you were friends with… wasn't someone you could care about… 

God, he couldn't breath, needed to get out… Now.

If Nick had been a cartoon character, there would have been little lines in the air behind him, maybe some of those little puffs of smoke as well, as he strode past the staff lounge. 

Warrick barely had time to register his friend's presence before he was gone again. Three sets of eyes nevertheless followed the young man's progress out of sight and then glued on the spot where their colleague had just been as if they could see Nick gunning his Tahoe and peeling off towards the strip. Greg Saunders, Lab technician extraordinaire, shrugged philosophically and returned to his DNA. They'd find out whatever was eating Stokes eventually that was just the way things worked at the crime lab.

While the two guys dismissed the exit as typically Nick of late, Sara's attention remained focused on the exit. Familiarity recognised the tense slant of his shoulders and she could practically _see_ the shuttered look on his face. Worry creased her usually line-less forehead. She'd been relieved to see Nicky so relaxed the other day and now, suddenly, it was like everything had come crashing back down. She sighed as any further analysis was halted by the arrival of their boss. Time to get back to work.

There was a notable absence from the team briefing session and everything inside Gil Grissom was screaming at him to go find the youngest CSI and bring him home. The logical side of him argued that this would be pointless since there was no way of knowing where he was and so the best way of helping him was to get this case solved and back off the table so the Texan could start to reconstruct his life. Again. He took a deep breath and began.

"Our Jane Doe," he began, when he thought he had everyone's attention. Greg had come to stand in the doorway while Catherine had taken a seat next to Warrick on one of the lounge's battered sofas. Her face as solemn as his, she knew exactly what was coming.

"Jane Doe," he started for a second time. Public speaking had never exactly been his forte but he'd never felt uncomfortable addressing his colleagues, his friends, he qualified, before. Of course this was hardly going to be your average team briefing. This was the kind of thing you needed Nick for, he thought ironically, the 'humanising influence'. 

He tried again, third time lucky. "There have been several new developments, some of which you will be aware of but others…" he trailed off. "Greg come in and close the door." It wasn't a request. "Warrick, any luck with those DNA samples?" He almost sighed in relief as he felt himself slip into business mode. He couldn't stay there of course. That wasn't the way to handle this… God, there wasn't a way to handle this, to cope with this. At Warrick's negative response, he turned to Sara, who if possible had made even less progress; when asked about the corpse, she'd responded sardonically, 'still dead.' At any other time his lips would have quirked up into a smile. But not now.

The team watched as their boss struggled to hold himself together. He finally gave in and sank heavily down in to the nearest seat. Suddenly he looked ancient. 

"As you know Catherine and I visited the vic's apartment earlier today," Gil said, leaning back into his chair. "You could say we had more luck." The words 'vic' and 'luck' both leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Grissom took the wallet of photos out of his bag and spread the images across the low table in the centre of the seating. He had to trust his CSI's to work it out for themselves because not for the first time since the discovery of a nameless female body in the Nevada a day before he didn't have a clue how to comprehend let alone articulate what was going on in his head. He barely registered Cath speaking in a low voice to his subordinates. Didn't notice Greg Saunders taking something seriously for the first time in his life. Didn't look up when Sara Sidle rose with tears streaming down her face and fled the room. Didn't see Warrick Brown lose his legendary cool. His eyes remained focused on a picture of a brown-haired, brown-eyed smiling boy from Houston, Texas.

Author's Note: Was that a copout? It felt like a copout…


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: OK, first can I apologize... yes? Thank you. I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated. I just spent a couple of months in Switzerland working (for the record, au pairing = bad.) so no story. Actually no stories of any kind so have been satisfying my need for a fic fix since I got back...  
  
Would like to thank everyone who's still with me*g*. Love the reviews. Also everyone who's been dying to tell me that Nick is in fact from Dallas (not Houston) and that I've been spelling Warrick's name wrong (castle near where I live called Warwick - it sounds the same, what can I say?) but managed to restrain themselves.  
  
Right, so for the first time actually have some idea where this story is headed (yay) so it should come along a lot quicker now. I hope. But anyway question: in the UK if a person isn't charged with a crime any DNA samples taken, fingerprints, etc would be destroyed, is that so in America? I.e. would they have Nick's DNA on file or not? Can anybody help me? Pretty please with sugar on top.  
  
Part 6  
  
Nick Stokes shuddered. He could almost be seven again as the same feeling of powerlessness swept over him. She was back and suddenly he was just a child. Neither innocent nor naive, yet still powerless. Always powerless. He felt rather than saw her smile against his flushed skin. The night light in the corner glowed, casting an eerie shadow over everything in the room. Everything was shadows and shapes; this was a nightmare world. She touched him and he prayed to wake up. To his parents' God. The one of Sunday school, of sermons and hymns. The one who loved everybody. In those moments Nicky knew with all the certainty of a child that He didn't love him. He wasn't listening, as he prayed, as he cried, as he screamed. No one was. He was alone. Always but especially with her.  
  
Twenty-five years older, Nick reveled in the power of the Tahoe as he switched gears, taking it up a notch. Testing himself on the all but deserted dusty road. Here he could let it go. All his aggression, his frustration, his fear released and he felt better. Only a little bit and only for a little while but it was something. It was enough for him to just stop and get his head together as he turned and drove back to the city that had felt more like home than the town of his birth. He knew enough about himself to know that this was exactly the time when he didn't want to be making decisions. Knew enough to know that he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he ran away - if he became that boy once more.  
  
Everything seemed foreign as he slowed down to join the more often frequented roads. The streets he'd grown to know and to a certain extent love took on a sinister tone. Even his own street, his own house was wrong. Violated. She'd known where it was. She must have done. Maybe she'd even been there. Been inside, touched his things. God! She'd seen what he was looking at now.  
  
Nick took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold of his home. Maybe not his home anymore. The place where he inhabited. For the time being, he decided, only for the time being though. Unsurprisingly, the light on his answering machine was flashing; 'You have messages'.  
  
Of course he did. He'd been driving for almost an hour, trying to clear his head, focus his thoughts, escape the numerous questions that were rapidly forming at the forefront of his mind. It was impossible though; there were more and more with every minute the passed, with every action and reaction. Had she been in here? Had she listened to his messages? Had she watched him like Nigel Crane, at home, where he should have been safe, where he had felt safe? What was she doing in Vegas to begin with? Had she come here for him? He didn't know, he doubted he'd ever know. Not really. Sighing, Nick reached for the phone. He couldn't ignore it and the people who cared about him forever. If he was really honest with himself that would be the one way to deny himself the answers that he needed. But first...  
  
The voices faded into the background. Warrick then Sara then Catherine then Grissom then Greg. He smiled slightly at the last one as the younger stumbled over his words, trying to articulate something that he himself probably didn't even understand. It was all there though. Support for him. A desire to be there for him. His smile grew as he relaxed for the first time since this whole thing had started. He didn't have anything to be afraid of. The most important people in his life now knew and it was ok. It would be ok.  
  
And then, "message 6..." His mom's voice echoed through the otherwise silent room. "Nicholas? Are you there? If you're there pick up!" Nick felt the tension that had been slowly seeping out of his body and down into the couch return as he braced himself for the barrage of questions he knew were coming. Had he heard about poor Janey? And wasn't it awful? Did he know anything? Did he have anything that she could pass on to the family? The woman on the end of the line wasn't technically his mother, he reminded himself. She was the public defender, the figure in the community. The subtle differences that had distinguished the two women had become even subtler as he was growing up and now he could usually be fairly certain that it was the latter he was talking to. The message ended as abruptly as it had begun. Nick sank back into his seat. It would start soon. The compulsive inspection of everything in the flat, in his life, any thing out of place whether real or imaginary would go just as it had before. Soon but now he felt weary. More tired, more worn than any thirty-two year old had any right to feel.  
  
******  
  
It was almost as if nothing had changed, Sara Sidle noted with grim detachment. There was still a case to be solved, still jobs to do. Except that suddenly everything had changed, everything was different. Their team wasn't really a team any more. Not without Nick. His absence hung over their heads like a ghost, even as they were, each supposedly engrossed in his or her own task. She couldn't quite bring herself to believe that he was just elsewhere, following up a lead or talking to a witness, something, anything so that this wasn't really happening. But it was, of course it was and instead of being with Nick, being able to help Nick, she was stuck in the lab, going through the motions and waiting while the second hand on the clock ticked round with agonizing slowness again and again and again. Every minute felt like an hour as the tall brunette counted each one down.  
  
Running a hand over her face, Sara groaned and tore herself unwillingly from the clock. Shutting out the hypnotic rhythm and turning back to the list in front of her. Just a set of names and places and dates. Could be anything really. But it's not. And that was why she was still there. After Catherine and Grist's bombshell the briefing had only lasted long enough for them to reiterate that the best way to help Nice was to get this case solved and off the table, dealt with. Away. Like that would somehow make everything go back to as it had been before Jane Peterson made a post humus appearance. But that was why they were all still there, if she was honest. Friendship that transcended shift work. That was why she was pouring over computer databases and antique telephone directories and every other resource she could get her hands on trying to track down seventeen young men who could be anywhere on the planet on the off chance that there was something, anything on one of them that could be even remotely relevant. It was a perverse kind of victimology; the victims of their victim. She just couldn't bring herself to add the 'relevant data' about Nick. 


	7. Chapter 7

OMG, hav updated, trust me no one is more shocked about it than me*g*. has always been my intention to finish this, albeit slowly. But on the bright side I actually know what's going to happen in the next part and that's gotta be good, right?  
  
Would like to thank everybody who's still with. i realise that this is taking ages and i am trying to be quicker... thanks for all the reviews and feedback, i really, really appreciate it.  
  
'K, now the Nick and Sara thing, am i die hard shipper but don't think it'll work in this story but yunno, sequel*g*. in the mean time am gonna hav to indulge my taste for fluff elsewhere, any fic recs? Please tell me what u think, any suggestions, comments etc are totally valued, especially as i haven't planned this so nothing is set in stone... right, story, onwards...   
  
  
Part 7  
  
It had seemed like a long shot when they'd started driving that morning, but a long shot worth exploring if not solely as an excuse to get them out of the now claustrophobic environment of the lab. Sara's investigation had led them to a name. A guy who could connect the past to the present... they hoped. The only link between the sequence of not-so-anonymous brown-haired, brown-eyed boys and the stacks of day planners and diaries that Cat had been analysing.  
  
Of course, sitting there with him sipping coffee, he wasn't really a suspect, Catherine Willows thought. He wasn't really an anything. He was a straw at which they were clutching. Tightly. With both hands.   
  
He hadn't left the ranch outside Vegas, where he lived and worked, for over a week, he said. And he hadn't according to the testimony of his colleagues. Jensen North was a well liked if more than slightly odd young man. His painful shyness radiated off him like a mist and only served to emphasise the vulnerability and fragility of his face. In the pictures they'd retrieved the resemblance had been striking if not uncanny but where Nick's jaw had strengthened and his shoulders broadened, suggesting an underlying power that was rarely displayed under his usually sunny disposition, Jen, as he insisted on being called by the 'pretty ladies' who'd come to talk to him, had barely changed from the photo that Sara'd studiedon the drive up. The air of innocence that he purveyed was only heightened by the tears that streaked his cheeks when he was told of the murder of Jane Peterson. Sara looked away embarrassed as a single solitary drop of moisture pooled at his chin and drop onto the dry ground below. She practically _felt_ Cat tense in an effort not to physically comfort the forlorn looking figure.   
  
"Why would anyone want to hurt Ms Peterson?" he'd wanted to know, cuffing at his eyes, trying to wipe away any evidence of his 'weakness'. "Ms Peterson says that big boys don't cry," he added by way of explanation. "She wouldn't never hurt anyone..."   
  
"Anyone? How did you know her?" Sara restrained herself from asking what she really wanted: Didn't she hurt _you_? The prospect of him turning those hurt puppy dog eyes on her was enough deterrent so she settled for the usual generic questions. Any way to distract him from his obvious grief.   
  
"She used to baby-sit for me," he told them quite happily; oblivious to the looks exchanged between the women. "We're friends."   
  
"Friends? So you guys see each other sometimes, huh?" Cat suddenly felt like she was talking to one of her daughter's friends, rather than a twenty five year old man.  
  
"Not so much." His face fell and his lower lip started to quiver once more. "She found a new friend."  
  
A new friend. They'd left shortly after that revelation. They'd driven up the tree-lined dirt track to the freeway back to Vegas. But with something. Maybe something. Jen hadn't known his name, only that the woman who had been the focus of his life since he was a child was no longer available to him. She'd found someone she liked better, someone with whom she had 'things in common'. That was direct quote. Sara frowned. Things in common. It could mean anything, someone she played bridge with for all they knew but it didn't feel that way to them. A quick glance at Cat's tense frame hunched over the steering wheel told her that she felt the same. Everything in her, investigator, scientist, cop, was screaming at her that this was significant. Given the extent of her obsession, the scores of photos both old and recent that they'd found hidden underneath the bottom drawer of chest after going over her place with a fine tooth comb, 'things in common' meant Nick.  
  
******   
  
She was relieved when he opened the door; partly because it meant that he was ok; partly because it meant that he was willing to see her. She held up the pizza she was carrying and he stepped aside for her to enter. Catherine was taken aback by her surroundings. She had stated loudly and clearly as the end-of-shift briefing was closing up that she was going to visit Nick, daring anyone to contradict this assertion or offer themselves in her stead. No one did acknowledging that she was acting in her capacity of 'den-mother', although she was aware of the resentful gazes of Warrick and Sara at her back. He'd confided in her once and she'd be damned if anything was going to stop her from being there for him again.  
  
"Spring cleaning?" she asked casually. He had literally turned his lounge area upside down. The only thing that remained untouched was his TV. Nick closed the door and followed her gaze.   
  
"Something like that," he admitted, taking a slice of the pizza that she offered and in turn throwing he a can of cola. He took a bite of his pizza and sank back onto his cushion-less couch. Grinning at her quirked eyebrow. "I'm ok," he reassured her. "I just need to make sure, yunno, that there's nothing left." She nodded. It was understandable. This was a psychological rather than physical need... It was highly unlikely that she'd been there, had touched any of the things that he'd scrubbed and re-scrubbed that afternoon but it needed to be done, it was enough that she'd come back into his life to make everything in it feel dirty, tarnished in some way.   
  
"Need help?" They finished the food in comfortable silence before she asked. Nick smiled and nodded gratefully. It was good just being around somebody again. A totally non-judgemental somebody at that. He'd been alone with his thoughts all day methodically going over every room in his maisonette, images from the last couple of days revolved through his head along with all of the other memories that had been dredged up with nothing to distract him and he wasn't even halfway finished. He'd been trying to work himself up to going to the lab to face everyone, instinctively he knew that the longer he left facing everyone the harder it would be. And Catherine was cool about it, he rationalised. It, his deep dark (no longer quite so secret) secret, hadn't affected their professional relationship, their friendship. It'd be ok, he decided.   
  
He'd be ok, his friend, at almost the exact same moment, realised. Nick was stronger than any of them could ever imagine. She saw the look of determination fall across his face and the stubborn set of his jaw and _knew_ that he was going to be ok. Not now, not tomorrow but he would be. She shrugged off her light jacket and started to work on the kitchen floor.  
  
Nick watched Catherine grad a cloth and squat down behind his counter. She seemed to know her way around his newly purchased cleaning products, he'd had old ones but they'd had to go along with his toiletries and the small amount of food left in fridge. He replaced own duster and was about to tell her that she didn't need to help like that when he heard her gasp.  
  
"Nick?" Catherine called, straightening up and backing out of the kitchenette. "There's blood." 


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Do you know, I think this is a first. Two parts, less that two months between them*g*. Who knew I had it in me. Thanks so much for the awesome reviews... Keep them coming*g*.   
  
For the record, I do actually agree with Grav; this is kinda disjointed... which is what happens when you leave months between updates. Let that be a lesson to me. I've re-edited and reposted the first few parts of this story and am going to post them soon (i do MEAN soon this time, not in the next quarter*g*).   
  
Part 8  
  
Three words: There's blood here. Three innocuous little words but put them together and his home wasn't his home anymore. It was a crime scene. Again. The garish, yellow police tape crossed his door for the second time in six months. God knew what the neighbours thought. At least this time there was no body to be stretchered out. A semi-hysterical giggle bubbled through his lips. Nick glanced around surreptitiously, but no one paid any heed to him. People thinking he was losing it was the last thing that he needed. Not now, now wasn't the time to fall apart. Not when a murder had been committed in his kitchen of all places. There was no question about that. Not in his mind anyway. Nick Stokes was willing to bet his pay check that the blood that Catherine had discovered belonged to his last minute baby-sitter. He didn't need Greg's gadgets to tell him that. A sample had been sent back to the lab, care of Warrick Brown, anyway. Instinct wasn't usually something that held up in court.  
  
They'd all been there. The lab had been called and the team dispatched. It must have been a slow night, Nick thought, sardonically, as the three CSIs who weren't there already showed up at his door escorted by a couple of cops. A sample had been scraped from the tiny amount of dried blood that remained at the base of his stove unit and taken to be analysed. Truth was, anyone other than Catherine probably wouldn't have noticed it. He'd have continued on his merry way, systematically dissembling a crime scene. If he hadn't been well, out of the country at the time, he'd have made for a pretty viable suspect. Motive. Cover-up. What more did your average trashy crime writer need? Now Sara, Grissom and Cat were going through what was left of his apartment, analysing it at thoroughly as he'd torn the rest of it apart a few hours before. He almost couldn't watch. Almost. Except he didn't have a choice; he couldn't help so he would watch.   
  
And blush, as Cat held up one of the few pictures of him in his gawky, adolescent stage that hadn't been burnt. At least he could say that he'd faced his friends now, Nick thought, ruefully. Not in any real kind of way, not beyond a nod from Warrick and a hug from Sara, but it was something, acceptance even and he could work with that. It was more than he'd expected and the relief was beyond anything he'd ever felt. The secret he'd been keeping for twenty five years was out there, gone. Almost feeling like it had taken the part of him that was too scared to scream with it; he could scream. Nick grinned. He could tell his folks. He could... he could... God, he could do anything. Almost anything, anyway. Starting with helping to solve a murder. That would be it, he decided. That would be his therapy, his closure. Now all he needed to do was persuade his boss.   
  
Hey guys? Sara's voice called from his bedroom. Nick bit back a groan, trust her to get his bedroom, but nevertheless rose to see what she had found. He followed Gil and Catherine, pushing down the part of him that resented the intrusion into his life and resolving to go flat hunting in the morning.  
  
Whatcha got? Grissom started, once everyone was present. Nick looked better, more at ease with himself at least.  
  
Sara Sidle gestured towards the deconstucted gun that she'd laid out on the bed. This is a nine mil, right Nick? he nodded mutely, not sure where she was going. It was his spare gun, mostly it lived in the top draw of his bedside table with his highschool year book and more god-awful photos of him and his friends in their youth. Do you keep it loaded? she wanted to know.   
  
Nick looked at her blankly for a moment, and then at other his colleagues. They seemed to see where she was headed even if he didn't. No, uh, no, not since... he trailed off, somehow not able to fill in the rest: Not since my stalker tried to kill himself with it.  
  
Well it is; there's also a slug missing, Sara expanded, apparently aware of her friend's confusion. The vic was shot with a nine mm bullet. She rested a comforting hand on his arm, as he made no effort to disguise his agitation.  
  
A potential crime scene and a potential murder weapon, the boyish CSI grimaced at his friends, the job momentarily forgotten. This night just keeps getting better and better. He'd have collasped back onto his bed dramatically if it hadn't been part of a crime scene, he thought, ironically.  
  
Anything else? Grissom asked hurriedly, suddenly aware of the emotionally and physically draining affect that their presence was having on the youngest CSI.  
  
A few prints, a couple of hairs, Catherine contributed.   
  
Grissom nodded. Get them checked out.  
  
I cleaned before I went away, Nick started, volunteering something without being prompted for the first time since that arrived and in doing so reminding them that the seeming eternity since the case had started was only in fact a couple of days. Shaking off his lethargy, he continued: The only other person who's been here is Cat. As far as he knew. The thought came unbeckoned into his mind.   
  
Stay with me tonight? Sara solicited, clasping his hand in hers as Nick seemed to be drifting back into himself again. He nodded distractedly. He couldn't stay at his place for obvious reasons and the home of a friend had to be better than a hotel.   
  
If Sara was honest with herself about her offer she'd say, she almost didn't want to leave him alone. This new Nick scared her. Not so much him but what he meant in her well ordered universe. The sense of unease that had permeated her soul since that briefing where Gil silently communicated a grief, a horror that shook his team, maybe even from before then, maybe since the body of an unidentified caucasian female was discovered half buried in sand outside Vegas, had found its source. Was it a kind of precognisance? She didn't know. As it turned out she didn't know much at all, not anywhere near as much as she thought she did. And she'd thought she knew a lot. That was her thing but he'd fooled them all, so easily. And he'd have kept on doing so, of that she was certain. Except that now everything was different. In a world where Sara's confidence, came from her intelligence, her knowledge, her ability to read people she was suddenly blind. With a friend, who was hurting that she desperately wanted to but couldn't reach.


End file.
